


With the blue above, and the blue below

by sous_le_saule



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, and there are POEMS, merman au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-16 20:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: In which retired steward John Bridgens finds out that merfolk do not exist only in books, and are unexpectedly fond of literature.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When English isn't your first language, you need a trustworthy betareader. I can always count on Lunasong365's wise advices and beautiful choice of words. Thank you again, my friend!
> 
> The title is a line from the poem "The Sea" by Barry Cornwall.

_"I’ve liv’d since then, in calm and strife,_

_Full fifty summers, a sailor’s life,_

_With wealth to spend and a power to range,_

_But never have sought nor sighed for change;_

_And Death, whenever he comes to me,_

_Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea.”_

The last syllable, suspended in the cooling evening air, slowly faded into the lulling swash of the waves. John smiled faintly. Barry Cornwall’s poetry held a special place in his heart. This little secluded corner of the beach had heard all of Cornwall’s pieces, amongst a multitude from other poets. Poetry must be read aloud to be truly savoured, and it never sounded as good in the modest cottage he rented in the country village almost two hours away from the shore – that is, two hours since his right leg had started slowing him down with pain. Having spent most of his life on ships, he missed the proximity of the sea, but it was all he could afford now that he was retired – so much for the _wealth to spend_. As often as he could, he came here and sat on a large stone, his feet in the water unless it was really too cold. And he read for hours. Poems, as well as the most poignant lines of novels, were his offerings to the sea. He missed having someone with which to share his reading. None of the villagers had proved to be eager to discuss literature, and his old friends were far away. Or dead. He pensively closed the red-covered volume. _Whenever he comes to me._

A splash pulled him from his brooding. Between two rocks breaking the waves a few yards from him, John caught a glimpse of a face. A swimmer, at this late hour? There was another splash, louder, and the face disappeared. John stood up, squinting in the fading light. Then he opened his eyes wide, speechless.

~~~

A sunstroke, in all likelihood. His eyesight was exceptionally good for his age and John had no reason to doubt his sanity – unless it had deteriorated to the point where he was unable to realise it. That option was so bleak that he’d firmly decided to blame the afternoon spent in the sun for the vision he’d had two weeks ago. He didn’t tell anyone about the unusually large fish tail slipping into the dark sea a second after the face had disappeared. Behind his back, the villagers called him “the old man with his nose always in his books” and gossiped about his single life. He was aware and didn’t take offence. But he’d rather avoid being regarded as a lunatic. 

Today’s cloudy sky suited the first day of autumn, the temperature still pleasant. John closed his eyes to better enjoy the soothing musicality of the waves unfurling on the shingles. A poem came to his lips.

_“The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,_

_And round the pebbly beaches far and wide”_

Poetry added its own rhythm and sound to those of the sea, together composing a pleasing symphony.

_“So comes to us at times, from the unknown_

_And inaccessible solitudes of being,_

_The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;_

_And inspirations, that we deem our own,_

_Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing”_

Before John uttered the last line, an unknown voice, coming from the sea itself, finished the poem for him.

_“Of things beyond our reason or control.”_

The enchanting sonority of the masculine voice almost overshadowed the peculiar diction, evidence that the unseen speaker was unfamiliar with English. Absurd as it was, John scanned the water around the rocks where he’d seen the face the other day. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew for a fact that his eavesdropper had returned.

A brown-haired, bearded man swam from behind the rocks, coming closer to John with slow, deliberate motions, as if to avoid scaring him away. The young man looked quite cautious himself, watchfully observing the deserted beach. With a mix of excitement and apprehension, John scrutinised the water stirred – logically – by the swimmer’s legs. There were no legs to be seen. But a fish tail.

John was rooted to the spot, like a dreamer unable to make the slightest move. The merman – for that had to be the proper term – stopped at a safe distance, leaning his elbows on a plate rock caressed by gentle wavelets. “Hello,” he said tentatively. “I like that poem. Did you write it?”

“Oh, no. Henry Longfellow did,” John automatically replied, which was not at all what he wanted to say. What he really wanted to say was more along the lines of “Are you real or am I going senile?”, but even in these astounding circumstances, questioning the creature about his reality didn’t seem like a very courteous thing to do. Besides, the merman appeared to be as real as anyone could possibly look.

“So the legends are true,” murmured John to himself. “Merfolk exist for real. How…” He raised his voice. “How is it possible that I’ve never before seen one of you, all the time I’d been sailing?”

The merman shrugged, a gesture so human it was a little disconcerting. “We are… cautious.” He was fumbling for words now, while his line of the poem had flowed flawlessly. “Humans are dangerous. If they know that we exist, they will try to… to catch us.”

John had a sudden vision of Dr Goodsir’s dissection lithographs. He found himself nervously looking around the beach. “Why reveal yourself now? Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“You look more interesting than dangerous.” Was there a touch of humour in his inflection? The grey eyes focused on John were sincere though, and he felt oddly flattered. “And my people… they always tell me that I am too curious for my good.” The merman corrected with hesitation, “My own good?”, waiting for a nod of confirmation. Then, chin in hand, he gazed ingenuously at John. “Well… am I?”

He most certainly was, if the question was naive. But his inscrutable air made it impossible to guess whether he was playing a game.

“I won’t hurt you,” John stated, fully aware of the worthlessness of his answer. Any fox asked by a chicken if it was trustworthy would give the same. But when the creature suddenly smiled, displaying slightly too-sharp teeth, John swallowed and reconsidered who would be the prey. “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,” he babbled, in an attempt to shrug off the unsettling feeling. “I’m John. John Bridgens.”

“John,” repeated the merman, as though savouring the name. The long, complicated succession of syllables he offered in return was most likely his own name. It sounded like a tone language, but that was its only similarity to any of the human languages John had heard. He made him say it again, more slowly, then gave it a try, rewarded with a soft chuckle. He tried again, but that language had a mellifluous quality that John couldn’t quite reproduce.

“Do not worry, our language must be difficult for human vocal organs,” reassured the merman as John apologised. “You can call me… mmh…” His face lit up. “Henry. The name of a talented poet certainly makes a good name.”

It suited him, granted, but it still felt a bit rude to be unable to pronounce his real name, while the other man was making visible efforts to speak John’s language – and doing fairly well. It caused John to recall a question he had set aside.

“How did you learn how to speak English? And poetry! How do you know poetry?”

“I listen to your people. Discreetly. As for the poem, this was not the first time you have said it out loud here.”

“You weren’t really discreet the other day,” teased John, to his own surprise. He usually didn’t act so familiarly with strangers.

“I was distracted… by the poem.”

John’s limited knowledge about merpeople came from books or stories sailors liked to spread. He no longer knew what was truth or fantasy in them, but he was sure of one thing: none of those stories had said that mermaids – or mermen – could blush out of embarrassment.

He was about to reply when they both froze as they heard voices from a distance.

“I must go!” whispered Henry.

He hurriedly disappeared underwater with a slight splash, cutting short the entirely surreal conversation. John stood there for a while, feeling like he’d been reluctantly snapped out of the most vivid, extraordinary daydream ever.

~~~

Green, not grey. Now, at a closer distance and highlighted by a sunbeam, John could better appreciate the unusual tint of the merman’s eyes. An inconstant colour, somewhat luminescent, as fascinating as deep water pierced by rays of light.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” said John, breaking his gaze with difficulty – but not quickly enough to miss the wry smile that followed his comment.

“I was not sure that you wanted me to come back.”

John took a small volume out of his coat pocket. “I thought you might be interested in a comedy.”

Henry seemed pleased with that prospect.

~~~

Next came _Gulliver’s Travels_, then many other books which John read to him aloud, translating Latin and Greek texts, leaving French ones, like Voltaire’s works, in their original version. His audience turned out to have _discreetly_ loitered around the Breton coast too – the anecdotes he dropped implying he was older than he looked.

He certainly was interested. He listened intently then bombarded John with questions. Sometimes the merman was obviously confused, frowning with a bewildered expression or smiling at a passage just because John himself was smiling. But as soon as John defined an unfamiliar word or clarified some human custom, Henry nodded with enthusiasm. He grasped human concepts with ease, drawing enthralling comparisons with the habits of merpeople, learned entire poems by heart and offered insightful interpretations of the meanings of pieces. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an interesting conversation partner. 

The sun always went down too soon, even more so as the days became shorter and shorter.

~~~

Shivering despite his thick coat and woolly hat and scarf, John envied his friend’s insensitivity to cold. Back from one of his regular dips in the sea, which interspersed their discussions, Henry hauled himself onto a nearby rock. It took all of John’s self-control to not stare at the briny rivulets running down Henry’s slim body and his iridescent, emerald-green scales. Years and years on ships, where he’d wisely kept a tight rein on his sexual desires, had him mastering the art of casually looking away.

He carefully kept his eyes on the wriggling fish Henry had just caught. Like every other time, the merman expertly killed it and began biting off jagged chunks of flesh. And, like every other time, John tried to bear in mind that he did no better himself when he slit a chicken’s throat and cooked it. But there was something feral in those sharp teeth sinking into the raw meat and, in those moments, John couldn’t help thinking that their rendezvous might be not entirely safe.

He never dared ask whether the legends about merpeople luring people into the sea with song to drown them were true. But whenever his friend sang in his marvellous voice, as in return for the reading, it was so spellbinding that John suspected he would dive in straightaway if he was asked.


	2. Chapter 2

It was an arctic-cold January. In other circumstances, John would have happily stayed home. This kind of weather worsened the pain in his leg, and only the prospect of a delightful afternoon of reading and chatting at the beach coaxed him into hobbling across the frozen countryside.

The merman sighed at John’s description of the snow-covered fields and the delicate icicles hanging from skeletal trees. “I’d like to see that.”

“What a pity that I can’t show you.”

These were recurrent lines in their conversations, brought by every description of human town or beautiful inland scenery from one, centuries-old submerged wreck or seabed teeming with life from the other.

“I was thinking…” Henry started hesitantly. “Actually, there’s a way. I could… I could take human form.”

John was baffled. “You can do that?”

“We have that ability. But only once in our lifetimes. Most of us never do it, or only in case of… emergency. Like to elude humans. But some use it to see your world. I was saving it for the right occasion. I’ve been wanting to tell you about it for a while but… I wasn’t sure that you would agree to help me. Maybe even… show me around?”

John was not only utterly delighted at the idea, but he could in no way deny his friend’s request when he was looking at him with such hopeful eyes.

“I’d be happy and honoured to do so.” They could see each other without worrying about the tide times or the beachcombers and fishermen intruding on them. It was almost too good to be true. Could it really be so easy? John remembered the tale by Andersen he’d read a few years ago. “Wait. Will you have to give up something in return for your transformation?”

“I don’t quite understand. Something like what?”

“I don’t know. Your voice?”

To both John’s relief and embarrassment, Henry seemed to find it amusing. “Of course not. It’s perfectly safe.”

~~~

“Thank you for the clothes.”

John, his back turned, waved his hand, meaning it was no big deal. “Do the trousers fit you?” He’d altered a pair of his at a rough guess the night before. The shoes had been more difficult to find, as he’d suspected his own would be too big. He’d ended up borrowing a smaller pair from an obliging – and incurious – neighbour. He could have done better with more time but, since they were both impatient, this outfit would have to do the trick.

“Quite. How do I look?”

John turned around. “Fine,” he said, narrowly holding back the spontaneous ‘utterly adorable’ that had struck him at the sight of the short, slender man in his own oversized knitted jumper. John cleared his throat. “If anyone asks, you’re a friend I served with in the Navy. You were born abroad, hence your accent. You wanted to pay me a visit, so you’re lodging with me.” Hopefully, his house was secluded enough that the villagers wouldn’t be too nosy.

“Can we go now?” urged his friend, grinning like a child who’d been promised an afternoon at the carnival.

It took them a long time to reach John’s house, for Henry’s steps were clumsy. Leaning against John to avoid falling, he laughed at his own awkwardness and enthusiastically commented on every single thing he saw along the way.

It wasn’t until John hung his coat next to the front door that he realised he’d barely noticed his sore leg.

~~~

John wasn’t a materialist. His books, a roof – or even better, a deck - over his head, and he was satisfied. But now he wished he were wealthier, so that he could take Henry all over the world and show him all those amazing places he’d seen when in the Navy. Not that his friend complained. He didn’t have eyes enough to admire Canterbury, where John bought him some clothes, or Dover or, of course, London, which he went on about for days.

The English countryside was also a source of wonder to him, especially when spring returned. He never got tired of their rambles, marvelling at the picturesque villages and the views over the meadows lined by dry-stone walls. It made those landscapes even more beautiful to John.

Their pace was slow enough that John’s pain was bearable, and he took pride in his endurance despite his age but, as much as he enjoyed their walks together, he liked their quiet evenings in the cottage even better.

It was a nice change not to cook only for himself. And Henry proved to be a willing kitchen hand. With the dishes washed, they sat in front of the fireplace, on the old sofa where John now slept – he’d been so insistent that Henry had finally given in and taken the bed. As Henry had shown interest in learning to read, that time had become dedicated for reading lessons. John was always careful to keep them short; Henry was soon exhausted, as the exercise demanded a lot of concentration from him. He said that words wavered before his eyes like seaweed agitated by the current.

They made a habit of ending the evening with John reading out loud, Henry pleasantly close to him. And each time, by chance, their fingers touched on a book cover, John’s heart – the very same heart he’d believed to be too old for such things - fluttered like it hadn’t for a long, long time.

That feeling kept him awake at night. He yearned to confess his love, but how would it be received? How would a merman react to such a declaration from a human? From a man. An _old_ man. What if it repulsed him, or at the very least made him uncomfortable? So uncomfortable, perhaps, that he’d feel compelled to leave – and go where? Henry trusted him; John would really be a poor host if he ruined his friend’s only trip ashore. And even if, by some miracle… how long would it last? John had no idea how long Henry intended to stay. He didn’t dare ask, for fear that his question would be mistaken for a polite dismissal. 

And so he tossed and turned on the sofa until the early hours.

~~~

The little house was silent, but a warmer silence than before Henry. Xenophon’s _Anabasis_ still open on his lap, John gazed at his friend, sitting at the table and scribbling in his leather-bound notebook. It was his new interest. As he listened to John read, he tried to write down a few words he liked, or sketch a vivid description. If his spelling was fanciful, to say the least, he had a natural talent for drawing.

Right now, he rather seemed to be doodling absent-mindedly, for the mere pleasure of the pen scratching on paper. As John bookmarked his page, Henry put the nib pen down, came and sat down next to him.

“John.” His manner was unusually serious, causing John’s anxiety to forcibly return. During their afternoon walk, Henry had been out of breath, blaming the warmth of April. Of course, he was accustomed to living in cold water, but the weather wasn’t that hot, and John couldn’t help worrying something was amiss. “Episthene… he loved that young man, didn’t he?” So he hadn’t been half-listening, after all. “I mean… your people use ‘love’ for so many different feelings… he was in love with him, am I right?”

Fearing that the question preluded a disapproval, John felt the knot in his stomach tighten. “Yes,” he said, doing his best to sound collected. 

Henry sighed in relief. “I wasn’t sure if your people found it… appropriate.”

“In this place and time, most people would say it isn’t,” John pointed out, less matter-of-factly than intended. He didn’t like the hint of bitterness he heard in his own voice.

“But not you?”

“No, Henry. Not me.”

Henry gave him a radiant smile. “Good. Because I love you, John.”

It was the most genuine, straightforward declaration John had ever heard. So much so that he was unable to react, just trying to contain the bliss expanding in his chest at a terrifying speed, afraid he’d misunderstood.

Henry’s beam faltered, and he groaned in frustration. “I wish I could express it better. I’ve made progress in understanding your words but they still don’t come to me easily when I need them. In my language, I thought of more beautiful words to say it to you.”

“Say them. Please,” John said weakly.

He didn’t understand any of Henry’s strange, melodious words, but the earnest inflection, the loving gaze fixed on him and the squeeze of Henry’s hand on his were more than enough to give John a fair idea of their meaning. And he knew for certain that they were, indeed, beautiful.

John’s own words - those he’d prepared during so many sleepless nights – were now lost, drowning in the wave of emotion overwhelming him. He resolved to borrow lines suitable to convey his feelings as faithfully as possible, and managed to utter them in a strangled voice.

_“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height _

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight_

_For the ends of being and ideal grace._

_I love thee with the passion put to use_

_In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith_

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose_

_With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,_

_Smiles, tears, of all my life.”_

Henry listened solemnly, then lowered his eyes, a sweet smile on his lips, his index finger slowly tracing John’s forearm tattoo. It felt like a meaningful gesture, as if it sealed a bond.

Unsure of the next move, John caught Henry glancing at his mouth through heavy eyelids. John stayed still, unwilling to force the issue, merely parting his lips slightly as an invitation. His hand resting on John’s arm, Henry leaned in and kissed him. It was awkward, but so gentle, so perfectly intoxicating that, when Henry pulled away, John was unable to open his eyes for a few seconds.

When he did, Henry, cheeks adorably pink, was looking at him with the apprehension of someone trying to figure out if they’d acted improperly. With a reassuring smile, John slid a hand along Henry’s jaw to the back of his neck and, gently stroking his hair, pulled him slightly forward so that their lips met again. This time, the kiss was more confident, deliberately slow. They made it last, as if, now that they’d tasted each other, neither could bring himself to ever end it. Henry let out a soft, almost surprised moan. Without breaking the kiss, he shifted forward to settle on John’s lap.

John certainly didn’t want to rush things, but his determination melted away as Henry pressed himself against him and whispered teasingly in his ear, “Teach me”.

In a heartbeat, John lifted him and carried him into the bedroom, Henry laughing in delight.


	3. Chapter 3

They had a few weeks of sheer happiness. Weeks of tender touches, of shared giggles, of loving glances caught from the corner of the eye. John had thought he would never have another chance to experience that sweet domesticity again, or those long-forgotten pleasures leading to blissful exhaustion. Every night, with Henry falling asleep nestled against him, John couldn’t believe how blessed he was.

Now, putting a cold, wet cloth on Henry’s fevered forehead, he blamed himself for letting that felicity blind him. He should have figured it out sooner. He’d seen that Henry was losing weight, and getting out of breath more and more often. He’d seen the large bruises, the dry skin, the fatigue. Admittedly, Henry had always had a good explanation for all of that. But the truth was, John felt at fault. He’d swallowed Henry’s excuses because he’d wanted to.

“You told me it was safe!”

“It is. For a certain amount of time,” said Henry weakly, almost as white as the sheet covering him. “My fault. I was supposed to change back sooner.”

“When?”

Henry looked away. “Weeks ago.”

“For God’s sake!” John’s anger immediately faded. Henry looked like a child being rightly rebuked, when John was fully aware he was the one responsible. No need to ask Henry why he’d been so reckless. John knew the answer. He took Henry’s hands in his own and, with a heavy heart, he said the only reasonable thing to say. “You must change back now. I’ll take you to the beach.”

There was no need to say it - Henry would never be able to take this form again. They’d known from the very first day it couldn’t last forever. John lifted Henry’s hand, pressed it against his mouth for a long time and they simply continued to gaze into each other’s eyes, the silence only broken by the wind lashing the cottage and the rain hammering against roof and windows.

“Tomorrow,” eventually begged Henry. “Please, John, tomorrow. It’s almost night already, and there’s that storm outside. A few more hours won’t make much more difference.”

John shook his head. “Henry…”

“Please. Can we sleep? Can we sleep together, one last time?”

John put his hand on Henry’s clammy cheek. Henry leaned into the touch, closing his eyes.

“Yes,” sighed John, misty-eyed. “Yes.”

~~~

John was roused from drowsiness by the wheezing sound of Henry gasping for air. John quickly helped him into a sitting position.

“Don’t panic. Try to breathe calmly,” he advised, supporting Henry and trying very hard to not panic himself.

Mouth agape, Henry looked at him with distraught eyes until, as if he only then recognised John, he cracked a faint, heart-wrenching smile, and relaxed. After a full minute, he was breathing a little more freely. His body felt so hot through his clothes that John didn’t need to touch his skin to know the fever had spiked. Dawn was still a long way off and, from what John could hear, the storm had not abated in the slightest. What a soppy old fool he’d been! They should have set out hours ago.

He gently brushed Henry’s sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. “Hold on, love. I’ll bring you back to the sea. You’re going to be all right.”

Wasting no more time, he put his boots on and his oilskin over his pyjamas. Then he carefully wrapped Henry in a blanket and lifted him in his arms like a beloved bride, his heart sinking at the lightness of his lover’s body.

~~~

Fighting every step of the way against the storm, John cursed the drenching rain and the headwind slowing his pace. He cursed the treacherous darkness barely pierced by his hurricane lamp. He cursed his damn leg and God Himself. But he made it to the beach, Henry unresponsive in his arms.

John hastily undressed him, got rid of his own boots and coat, and walked into the sea until he was waist-deep in furious waves. He immersed Henry in the water, not yet releasing him. He stood firm against the violent swell and waited, repeating fervent words of encouragement as a mantra. After agonising minutes, he thought he felt Henry shudder. At the very same moment, a more forceful wave threw him off balance. Before he could get back on his feet, a second wave swept over him, making him lose his grip on Henry.

Tossed about by the swirling water, John couldn’t distinguish up from down. When he finally managed to take a gulp of air, he’d been pulled out of his depth. Turning his head in all directions, he tried to spot Henry, yet knowing it was impossible in these conditions. He couldn’t even locate the direction of the beach, unable to detect the light from the lamp he’d left there.

John started swimming in what he hoped was the right direction, screaming Henry’s name again and again. Had he regained consciousness? Had he been able to return to his true form? Suddenly, John felt himself seized and towed in a different direction. He fought an instinctive panic, forcing himself not to struggle, then gave in to an intense relief. Henry was alive.

With the powerful movements of his tail, it took him less than a minute to bring John safely to the shore.

Lying half on the sand, half in the breaking waves, John hugged Henry tightly in his arms. The breath knocked out of him, Henry let out a muffled sound.

“Are you all right?” John asked loudly, to be heard above the storm. 

In the dim light of the hurricane lamp, he saw Henry’s nod and meaningful look. _So this is how it ends, _John thought, his heart in his throat. He took Henry’s face in his hands, absorbing his features, unable to let him go.

“I _will_ come back,” assured Henry, leaning his forehead against John’s. “But not for a while. I have something to do.” Pulling away, he tucked John’s sopping hair behind his ear, giving him a bittersweet smile. “Now go home, dry yourself off and get warm.” 

Then, without a backward glance, he disappeared into the rough sea, as effortlessly and gracefully as if it were a placid lake.

~~~

Despite what Henry had said, John was back on the beach as soon as the weather improved. And the next day. And the day after that.

A week went by, then another.

Back from the shore, where he’d waited once again in vain, John took off his coat and looked around the silent room. Henry’s papers were lying on the table, where he’d left them. John hesitated, then grabbed them and let himself fall on the sofa. He stared at the ceiling, pressing the notebook against his chest, oblivious to time. He wasn’t eager to eat a solitary meal, read in silence and get into his cold bed.

Sometimes he feared it had all been a dream. In those moments, he buried his face in a jumper Henry had worn, or he caressed the leather cover of his notebook. Until now, he’d had scruples about opening it. But today, he needed something to hold onto. After all, Henry had showed him several pages, and he used to leave it in plain view. Its content probably wasn’t very private…

Most of the pages were recollections of their walks or readings together. It was touching to see what Henry had chosen to sketch or take note of. “I love the sea… I love the sea”, he’d written on one of them, in his laborious handwriting. How he must have missed the sea while he was living here. Surely he was happier now that he was back in his element. It made no sense for a merman to fall in with a human, and it wouldn’t be long before Henry forgot about him. John couldn’t blame him.

He turned the page and goggled at the next one. Henry had meticulously reproduced John’s tattoo. John traced the drawing with his finger, smiling with emotion. It was too soon to give up hope.

~~~

He was proved right six days later, when Henry happily waved at him from a distance, all caution forgotten – thankfully fortune favoured them with an absence of witnesses. He swam quickly to the shore.

“Oh, John, I’ve missed you so much! But it was worth it!” He spoke rapidly, visibly excited.

“Whatever you’ve been doing, I hope it was worth torturing me with your absence for three weeks,” replied John, beaming far too widely to convincingly pretend he was grumbling.

“I found it. A place. A house. Where we could live together. Well, the closest thing we can have to it given our… different needs. I mean…” His tail nervously agitated the water surface. “… if you still want to?”

“Do you really need to ask? Of course I do. So is this the thing you had to do? Find a place for us?”

Henry nodded, relief washing over his face. “It wasn’t easy but–oh, you must see it! It’s a little fisherman house. On stilts. There’s even a landing stage jutting out over the sea! Apparently nobody’s lived there for years. And it’s on a quiet little stone beach. I didn’t see anyone there for hours.” He paused, as if thinking of something. “It must be a very remote place.” He frowned more deeply. “And it’s quite far from here. And, of course, I couldn’t see the inside. It’s probably run down,” he added gloomily, his excitement dissipating. “I’m sorry. I only considered it from my perspective, I can see that now.”

John laid a reassuring hand on Henry’s. “It sounds perfect. I don’t need much. And I’d follow you to the bottom of the deepest ocean if I could. Do you really think a few miles would discourage me?” The smile returned to Henry’s face, and John realised that making Henry smile was all he wanted to do for the rest of his life. “Tell me where it is. I’ll eat my hat if I don’t find the owner and convince him to sell. I’ll just have to find a way to make some money, but I’m sure I can–“

“Would this be enough?” Henry opened the odd leathery purse slung across his chest, which had been intriguing John. There was a handful of ancient, tarnished coins inside. Gold, to all appearances.

John’s jaw dropped. “Where did you–“

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Well, I… I have no idea. I suppose it would. But… I can’t take them.”

On the verge of handing the purse to him, Henry froze. “Oh. You _can’t_? Fine, John. I’ll put them back where I found them. I’m sure the fish have been missing them. Meanwhile, you can just… I don’t know… lie down here on these pebbles and lament over the months of hard work it will take before we can be together.”

Henry’s indignation was so outrageous that John couldn’t help laughing. “All right, all right. There’s no need to be sarcastic. I reckon it won’t do any harm if I use them.” 

~~~

“Hey!” Contrasting with the heat at summer’s end, the chilly water just splashed at him made John jump. “Careful with the book!” he protested on principle, closing the entirely dry volume.

“I _can _aim. Just put it aside and come swim with me.”

Shaking his head fondly, John stood up from his sitting position at the end of the pier. A rowboat was moored there, bought with the rest of their treasure. They’d traded their countryside strolls for sea trips; Henry taking great pleasure in bringing countless curiosities to the surface for John.

Unbuttoning his shirt, John turned towards the house at the other end of the landing stage. It was a humble but sturdy home. Neat, even, with its fresh coat of white paint. Honestly, he’d done a good job of fixing it up. He carefully folded the shirt, took his trousers off, and laid them together on the wooden planks.

Savouring the sun on his skin, he soaked up the scenery. The smooth sea reflected the cloudless sky, merging at the horizon. A seagull glided towards the beach, a single touch of white against the azure.

He smiled contentedly at Henry, who smiled back at him.

John felt happy. Simply happy. He wouldn't seek nor sigh for change. He was where he would ever be - with Henry. _With the blue above, and the blue below._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sea
> 
> THE SEA! the sea! the open sea!  
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!  
Without a mark, without a bound,  
It runneth the earth’s wide regions round;  
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;  
Or like a cradled creature lies. 
> 
> I’m on the sea! I’m on the sea!  
I am where I would ever be;  
With the blue above, and the blue below,  
And silence wheresoe’er I go;  
If a storm should come and awake the deep,  
What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 
> 
> I love, O, how I love to ride  
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,  
When every mad wave drowns the moon  
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,  
And tells how goeth the world below,  
And why the sou’west blasts do blow. 
> 
> I never was on the dull, tame shore,  
But I lov’d the great sea more and more,  
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,  
Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest;  
And a mother she was, and is, to me;  
For I was born on the open sea!  
The waves were white, and red the morn, 
> 
> In the noisy hour when I was born;  
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise roll’d,  
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;  
And never was heard such an outcry wild  
As welcom’d to life the ocean-child! 
> 
> I’ve liv’d since then, in calm and strife,  
Full fifty summers, a sailor’s life,  
With wealth to spend and a power to range,  
But never have sought nor sighed for change;  
And Death, whenever he comes to me,  
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! 
> 
> Barry Cornwall (Bryan Waller Procter)


End file.
